


Post Season 3 drabble

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, POV Second Person, SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3 FINALE, Spoilers, Win probably knows what the boys are up to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 03:25:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8040646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: Tiny 2nd person POV drabble set post season 3 (after the final episode.) BEWARE OF SPOILERS.





	Post Season 3 drabble

**Author's Note:**

> this is rough/unbeta'd but i had to get my feels out now that i've caught up on the finale. idk if anyone will like this fic but i thought i would share it anyway.

* * *

When you see him coughing, it’s all you can do not to rush to his side. The first time you two were alone, you tried it, and the warning in his eyes had run you through like an icicle, freezing where it ruptured organs and tore through skin.

Fine. No comfort, then.

If that’s what he wants, then that’s what he wants. No doubt he gets enough of it at home – Win and Joan fussing, Sam watching from a distance, quiet with worry. He’s never come to you for _that_ , but when he first shrugs off your hands and turns away, you realize, for the first time, just how much he _doesn’t need you._

After that, it’s not about him. He doesn’t want your hovering, your tenderness – fine. It’s not about him. You think of his lung, of his wound, but never of his feelings as you stand, fists clenched, nails digging into your palms.

Each wracking cough feels like the twist of a knife in your gut.

Finally, finally, it crumbles. _He_ crumbles – his house a shadow of its former glory, his children gone, his wife distraught. He invites you in without a word, and when Win, bless her, senses his need to talk to you, man to man, and departs, he corners you and shows you the metal he’d brought up with a mouthful of blood.

Again, no words are needed. You understand how he feels completely – how it seems impossibly cruel for the universe to right one wrong only to leave him reeling from another. When the pain shows in his face, you reach for him and he lets you – tolerates the petting of his hair, the press of lips against his closed eyes. You taste tears there and follow their path down to his throat, and further still, pushing his open shirt off his shoulders, tugging his undershirt over his head. You press your nose into his sternum, turn your face this way and that like a cat, nuzzling, marking him as your own. You pepper him with kisses, sucking on the scar the bullet left, wrapping bony arms around him, half-holding him up, rocking with him as he shudders through sobs you know he’s ashamed of. You let him feel your tears against his skin – the wordless show of solidarity. You are not DI and bagman here – you are equals in grief. It isn’t much – it cannot keep Sam safe, or bring back Joan – but from the unreadable expression in Thursday’s wet, reddened eyes, you know that he finds value in it, just the same.


End file.
